


Livebait

by ImpOfPerversity



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Dead Man's Chest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-21
Updated: 2006-08-21
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: "... and languish locked in L." Or, you know, not.





	Livebait

**Author's Note:**

> Written over a period of about a month in 100-word snippets, mosaicked together. I like this technique: it makes you think about every word in each individual drabble, yet the fragments can be jiggled into any shape, with judicious omissions and additions.

**I**

This wasn't Hell. Hell should be full of devils with toasting forks, and roaring fires, and elaborately apt eternal punishments. Or p'rhaps Hell should be dark and hot and crowded with sinners, each with a myriad tales to tell: when Jack entertained this notion, his mind's eye conjured illustrations that called to mind various Tortuga inns, as rendered by that Bosch chap. At the very least, Hell should be populated with the shades of those many, far from blameless, individuals who'd met their deaths through the machinations of Captain Jack Sparrow. Hell, in short, should be int'resting.

This wasn't Hell.

**II**

Bob Shaftoe had always said that Jack was destined for Hell: and Jack hated to admit it, but it turned out his brother'd been right. Assuming this was Hell, of course: a safe bet, all things considered, but it certainly wasn't what he'd been led to expect. A maze of gloomy streets; an unchanging pewter sky; a pervasive odour, not of brimstone, but of mould.

And there was no audience for his tales. Up there, or over there (wherever the mortal world lay in relation to Hell), meanwhile, everyone'd be talking about Jack Shaftoe's ignominious end. Talking, and laughing.

Bastards.

**III**

"Good day to you!" Jack called out jovially to the natives. None of 'em, man or woman or child, would meet his eye or answer him. They swayed and shimmered, impossible to touch.

It was like walking amongst ghosts. Obvious, though, that all these grey wraiths were of a different kind to Jack Sparrow. There was no colour to them: no spark. Life still hammered in Jack's veins, never mind that he felt neither hunger nor thirst, that he hadn't slept since he'd first woken here.

Clearly there'd been some sort of administrative error. He was in the wrong place.

**IV**

Jack Shaftoe slapped his hand down on the bar, ready to make complaint. The beer was tasteless, and the brandy watered: didn't a fellow deserve a decent drink, when he found himself dead and damned?

But the shuffling grey ghost behind the bar seemed, frankly, dull. There'd be no sport in intimidating him. And Jack'd sampled several pubs in this lacklustre (and apparently landlocked) conurbation. Every time he saw an inn sign (the Broken Anchor, the Bloody Lady, et cetera) he made for it, and ordered a drink. And every time he walked away sober.

This was Hell, all right.

**V**

Jack Sparrow, by virtue of a decent education, knew his way out of Hell. There was a river, apparently, and a ferryman to take you across it. Usually a one way trip, but Jack'd never met a man who couldn't be persuaded to bend the rules. And Jack was feeling mightily persuasive, after ... how long had it been?

Time to depart, anyway. All he had to do was find the river. The land here was flat as glass, and all the houses precisely the same height: even shimmying up a drainpipe hadn't shown him the slightest glimmer of open water.

**VI**

It was inevitable that Jack Shaftoe'd succumb, sooner or later, to the urge to commit violence upon something. When an especially dismal spectre drew near, he swung at it. "Step aside, you ... aaargh!"

This last utterance signified his realisation that the ghost, far from fighting back, had melted around his blow. It went on its way without a backward glance.

Jack cursed, and kicked the door of the nearest house. (Would've gone in, but it'd be another empty echoing shell, with nothing worth thieving.)

"Right," he said belligerently to the empty air. "I'm dying again, of boredom now. What next?"

**VII**

Apart from the soft sussurus of the endless drizzle, Hell was unsettlingly quiet. Even the sound of Jack Sparrow's boot heels on the flagstones was muted, as though he were walking through fog.

"Bugger this for a lark," he said to the nearest shade: but it shuffled on by with never a word. He'd heard his own voice clear enough though, which was a relief. A man doesn't like to think he's been struck deaf, even when he's dead.

When the first ghastly, demonic wail echoed along the nameless street, Jack almost jumped out of his boots. Span round, looking.

**VIII**

Jack punched the door again, for good measure. Eyed it, and loosened his sword in its scabbard: but it would be sheer lunacy to hack at the door of an empty house. Anyway, he might need to keep his steel sharp, in case of danger.

About bloody time some danger presented itself. Jack'd expected Heaven to be dull, with all the churchy types there, but Hell should be more --

"Who's there?" came a voice from around the next corner.

Jack's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.

"Name's Jack Shaftoe," he called back. "P'rhaps you've heard of me."

**IX**

Oh, this was a live one, all right. The man who stood ready, sword in hand, on the narrow grey street was more vibrantly alive than anyone Jack Sparrow'd encountered since his tentacular demise. Come to think on't, he was more alive than pretty much anyone Jack'd known before said demise. Gloriously, glowingly alive: blue eyes flashing vivid as summer sky, sandy hair practically ablaze in the leaden air, every fibre of his being taut and singing with vitality. For a moment Jack phant'sied that he'd wandered free of Hell: but a quick reconnaissance showed that nothing else had changed.

**X**

Was this apparition one of Old Nick's demons? Or was its mode and manner indicative of the sins for which it'd been damned? Jack Shaftoe knew a word or two for those sins. His fist clenched, remembering the sinners he'd encountered when alive.

The creature before him was as improbable as anything in the Bible (which, Jack'd heard, contained many a fabulous tale): yet there was a palpable reality to him, a sense of presence that the ghosts entirely lacked. He glittered, swayed, lured. Perhaps he was just another trial for Jack's battered threadbare soul, but dull he was not.

**XI**

"Name's Sparrow," said Jack. "Captain Jack Sparrow." But he perceived no answering spark of recognition in the man's blue gaze. "And who might you be?" he added testily. "What's brought you here?"

"Unforeseen circumstances," retorted the other. "Nothing I'll bore you with so very early in our acquaintance. Captain, eh? Then where's your ship?"

"The same place as your horse," parried Jack, taking a wild guess (mud-splattered boots, saddle-worn breeches, a certain immobility) at the man's terrestrial origins.

"Haw! Well, you learn something new every day."

"What's that?"

"Why, that glue's made from old ships as well as old nags."

**XII**

The sea captain -- pirate, yes: Jack Shaftoe had it now -- gave him a brief sharp smile that did not reach his dark eyes.

"That's as may be, Mr Shaftoe," he said. "Though if anything's to be made of my Pearl, it'll be a sight more int'resting than glue."

"You buccaneers," said Jack mockingly. "Always have to be so bloody fascinating, don't you?"

"Oh, but I am," said Sparrow, swaying unnervingly close. (The rain did not settle on his extravagantly beaded hair.) "The question is, mate, are you?"

"Depends on your definition," said Jack, belatedly wary. "I ain't much like you."

**XIII**

"You astound me, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack. "Now that you mention it, I believe I detect several points of difference. And here's a potential other one: I'd rather be damned in hell with an interesting companion than a dull one."

"Funny you should say that," said the other, a wicked glitter in his eyes. "I was thinking, just lately, that this must be Hell, by virtue (nay, vice) of being so very boring."

"I'll lay we can make it .. int'resting, 'twixt the two of us," said Jack.

Shaftoe laughed out loud. "You make it interesting, mate. I'll make an escape."

**XIV**

"Escape?" said the pirate, eyes narrowed. There were black smudges on his eyelids, like a tipsy whore's paint. "This is Hell, Mr Shaftoe: perhaps you've heard of it. Eternal punishment for the damned? Flames, devils, brimstone, punishments baroque and curiously apt?"

"I don't see any of that," said Jack, making a show of peering up and down the street. "Though it sounds a bit like Tyburn on Hanging Day: great entertainment, unless you're part of the show. Beg your pardon, we've digressed from my point, which is this: that Hell's a prison like any other, and there's a way out."

**XV**

Jack could not decide whether to look at this Shaftoe fellow with pity (for his evident lackwittedness) or amusement (for his absurd confidence). He compromised with a friendlier smile, one that showed his dental gold to advantage.

"And I s'pose you have it all planned out," he said admiringly. "Bribing the guards, is it? Or a rope over the wall at midnight?"

"I ..."

"Last prison I 'scaped," confided Jack, "I left in a coffin."

"Prison to Hell doesn't count as an escape," said Shaftoe, grinning. "And to answer your question: no, I don't have a plan yet. Just an ... urge."

**XVI**

"As it happens," said Sparrow, "the route here wasn't quite that direct."

"Lost, were you?" jibed Jack. "An' you with that fine compass at your belt."

"This compass," said the pirate, unhooking it and flipping open the lid, "doesn't point ..." He glanced up at Jack, frowning. "... north."

"Every direction's north," said Jack, "since Hell's hot, so must be as South as it's possible to be."

Jack expected a repartee, of the conversational if not the defencing kind, but instead a curious shudder overtook the pirate.

"Someone step on your grave?"

"I'd be surprised," said Sparrow. "My grave's still swimming around."

**XVII**

Damn. Now this ragged fellow was looking at him pityingly, when he should've been envious. Not every man went down battling a mythological monster, after all.

"I hate to draw it to your attention," said Jack, determined to wipe away that superior expression, "but Hell is not, in fact, hot. Nor cold. Nor anything else, really."

"I heard --"

"Are you hot, Mr Shaftoe? Don't let's stand on ceremony: do pray remove that unbecoming coat, if you're uncomfortable."

Shaftoe grinned. "All right," he said. "Hell ain't hot. Actually, given the climate here, I'd say we're on a latitude with London Town."

**XVIII**

"London?" said the pirate. "'Zat where you're from? ... Let's walk. This street's obviously an especially dull one."

"It's all dull," said Jack, falling into step beside Sparrow. "How long've you been here, eh?"

"Couple of days, if that. You?"

"'Bout the same," said Jack. "When you ... when you died, where were you?"

"On my ship," growled Sparrow. "Somewhere in the Caribbean. Alone." And he shot Jack a peculiar, impenetrable look.

"No witnesses, eh?" said Jack. "Probably for the best. From what you said, I gather you were gobbled up by some fearsome sea creature. Don't sound very ... heroic, to me."

**XIX**

"I ... died," said Jack (the word surprisingly difficult to say, for all the simplicity of the sound), "fighting the Kraken. Ever heard of that, Mr Shaftoe?"

Shaftoe shook his head. "Some foreign monstrosity, no -- hey! That tower weren't there just now!" He pointed t'wards a narrow building that rose high above its neighbours.

"Aye, but it is now," said Jack, who knew a distraction when he met one. "Let's see what we can see: and, while we're walking, why don't you tell me how you met your end, eh?"

"Why, battling a fearsome monster," said Shaftoe: but he'd flushed red.

**XX**

He was most definitely not going to give this odd creature an opportunity to find amusement at his expense. Oh, Jack Sparrow might be the most interesting thing that'd happened to Jack since he'd shuffled (or, rather, been propelled) off the mortal coil: but the glitter in his black eyes, the sardonic twist of his smile beneath a ridiculously elaborate concoction of facial hair (at least it seemed to be his own), spoke of a man who revelled in the misfortunes of others. And that was Jack Shaftoe's role in life. The afterlife. Whatever.

He didn't believe Sparrow's tale, either.

**XXI**

"When you say 'fearsome', Mr Shaftoe," said Jack amiably, "just how fearsome are we talking, eh?"

"Fearsome enough to be the death of me," said Shaftoe. "Though I'll admit it weren't much to look at."

"Was it a wasp, then? A spider? Some kind of creeping beastie with a sting?"

"No sting," said Shaftoe, grinning. "Guess again."

"Fangs? Claws? Tentacles? Suckers?"

"Not so's you'd notice."

"Poisonous, was it?"

"Its breath could've knocked a man out," said Shaftoe, "though, as it happens, it weren't the breath as did for me."

"Stenchful from its previous prey, I expect," said Jack, nodding sagely.

**XXII**

Jack Shaftoe recalled his death most vividly. (Had a suspicion he'd remember it for all eternity, since nothing more climactic seemed likely to befall him.) That great grey beast like an ambulatory hill, its single horn cocked like a lance, its bleary black eye fixed balefully 'pon Jack: his ribs aching where Mary Dolores elbowed him, shrieking with joyful disgust as the creature snorted.

Well, Jack had to impress her, didn't he? Ducked under the rope and beckoned to the alleged Unicorn. He'd seen one at the Fair, once: though that specimen hadn't been so alarmingly fast on its feet.

**XXIII**

"So you played your death scene to an audience, eh?" said Jack Sparrow, flicking an appreciative glance at his companion. "Challenging."

He'd been quietly convinced that the stairs in this tower would go up for ever: but here they were on the open rooftop, looking out over what seemed an endless urban vista. Nothing but wet grey slate, reflecting the leaden sky. The view to his left was much more appealing, even if it was scowling at him.

"In my experience," expanded Jack, "it's often preferable if the storytellers don't have much in the way of fact to work with."

**XXIV**

Jack phant'sied he could still hear the roar of the crowd: hardly a novelty, for he'd early learnt to please an audience and profit, if not from their admiration, then from their distraction. They'd cheered as he'd seized the wicked curving horn. (Funny, in pictures 'twas always straight and spirally, and prettied up with gilt.) They'd gasped when he made to vault over the beast's broad back, But if they'd cried out his name he hadn't heard it: for the unicorn -- nay, they'd called it by another name: rhine, rhino? -- was fast, and ill tempered, and once he was down ...

**XXV**

"You ain't the only fellow who's fallen to some legendary beastie," said Shaftoe. "Though I .. died for a lady."

"So did I, more or less," said Jack. "Perfidious wench. Good lass."

Shaftoe looked distinctly jealous: a sight to warm Jack's heart. "Course," he went on, "she's probably still weeping over me. Or cooking up some daring rescue mission."

"Rescue?"

"She read a lot," said Jack. "Novels."

"Are they good for that, then?" enquired Shaftoe. "Good for getting people out of, may I remind you, Hell? Never seen the point of novels myself," he digressed. "I'm the one they write about."

**XXVI**

"There's more'n one novel in which the characters 'scape Hell," said the pirate.

"Aye? How'd they do that, then?" enquired Jack, wondering how he might weave such a story about himself.

"Trickery, usually," said Sparrow. "Which would be ever so much more probable if there were anyone here to trick."

Jack brightened. "Bound to be someone in charge," he said. "It's Hell, ain't it? Bound to be some fellow, some demon -- nay, a horde of 'em, each with his Office -- to whom we apply for egress. That's the thing about sin, Captain Sparrow: it attracts officials like honey draws flies."

**XXVII**

"So you lived a life of sin, did you?"

"Black hearted to the bone, me," said Shaftoe, with no small pride.

"What manner of sins?"

"How long've you got?" Shaftoe riposted.

"Eternity, Mr Shaftoe, near as I can figure: but I'll settle for the edited highlights."

"Theft, arson, highway robbery," said Shaftoe. "Kidnapping, blackmail -- why the fuck are you looking at me like that?"

"Was hoping you might surprise me, mate," said Jack regretfully. "But it seems your career and mine have overlapped, at least in the more terrestrial milieux. Anyway, they're not precisely sins. Crimes at worst. Misdemeanours, really."

**XXVIII**

"And I s'pose your history is so very much more int'restingly wicked," snapped Jack. "No merely criminal acts for, what was it, Captain Jack Sparrow: got a reputation to uphold, no doubt."

Sparrow merely bowed and smirked.

"Well, I went a-pirating once," exaggerated Jack, "an' I have to say that it wasn't all it's cracked up to be. Chasing after merchantment: playing crude practical jokes on the newcomers: swaggering 'round the miserable taverns of Port Royal, that they call the wickedest city on Earth." He scowled down at the dank streets. "Haw! Even Hell's got more charm and atmosphere."

**XXIX**

"P'rhaps you weren't looking in the right places," needled Jack Sparrow. "Perhaps, being a mere land-lubber, you hadn't a clue where to find mayhem and merriment. Or perhaps you found it and weren't ... pirate enough to make use of what you found." He looked Jack Shaftoe up and down, lingeringly, in a manner calculated to provoke. Not that looking at Shaftoe was any kind of hardship.

"Maybe I just didn't like what I saw," said Shaftoe, with a nasty grin.

"Maybe it frightened you, Mr Shaftoe. I've forgotten how you said you died. Running away from something, were you?"

**XXX**

"What d'you reckon happens if I kill you?" enquired Jack Shaftoe, loosening his sword in its scabbard.

"Kill me?" said Sparrow, mockingly. "But I'm already dead."

"So'm I!"

"Well, if a dead man murders another, has any crime been committed?"

"What if he murders him to free him?"

"The road to Hell, they say, is paved with good intentions."

"I heard it was paved with lawyers," quipped Jack. "But I'm less concerned with the morality of such an act than with its effects."

"Well, clearly there can't be sin in Hell. What'd be the point, eh? And what the punishment?"

**XXXI**

"So there's no sin here?" enquired his new companion with the broad, happy grin of a man chancing upon some pristine opportunity. "No sin save what's within our selves?"

"Have you sinned since you woke?" said Jack, grinning back.

"No ... that'd be why I'm not feeling right," said Shaftoe.

"Are you not? That's still no call to murder me, Mr Shaftoe."

"'Twasn't murder on my mind," confessed Shaftoe, "as much as a hypothesis of ushering you from this place to the next."

"A delightful theory," said Jack thinly. "But unpleasantly absolute: for if it fails, your sole company's a corpse."

**XXXII**

"Murder's a sin, ain't it? As well as a crime? Though sometimes," digressed Jack, "the worse sin's leaving some lackwit to live and breed."

"No offspring of your own then?" enquired Sparrow.

"None that I know of," smirked Jack. "Though I ain't saying none for sure: I was always popular with the women."

"Women, eh?" said Sparrow, with a provocative leer. "You've definitely been limiting yourself in terms of opportunities to sin."

"I take it you mean sodomy," said Jack. "That's a game for those as can't get a girl: those who sail without a woman or two 'tween decks."

**XXXIII**

"Come now, aren't you just the slightest bit curious?" enquired Jack Sparrow. "Don't you want to know what it ... how it feels?"

"Curiosity got me where I am today," retorted Shaftoe. "To wit, in Hell, in the company of your good self. Or, rather, your sinful self. Are you sure, Jack Sparrow, that you ain't some demonic manifestation, some temptation sent to mire me deeper in sin?"

Jack was flattered. "Why, Mr Shaftoe: are you feeling tempted?"

"Not in the slightest," Shaftoe declared, flushing.

"Then there's no temptation," said Jack, biting his lip as if in thought, "and no sin."

**XXXIV**

Oh, he missed the Imp's merry mazy presence, missed the constant companionship and the misguidance, missed that sense of a myriad opportunities to be bad -- nay, veritably Perverse. But the essence of that incorporeal being surely bubbled in Jack's own veins. How else would he be so very drawn to the most wicked, contrary, interesting thing he could do right now? Why could he not prevent his hands from rising up, holding the pirate's face -- flushed and exotic, mirroring Jack's own admiration -- still, and putting his mouth to that teasing, tempting other? Why did that kiss taste so very fine?

**XXXV**

Surely the whole point and purpose of Hell was to tantalise, to show a man his desire and then demonstrate, somehow, that he couldn't have it. But Jack'd seen what he wanted down there on the street, when Jack Shaftoe'd first introduced himself: and now he had it, had Shaftoe's tongue pushing greedy into his mouth, Shaftoe's teeth sharp against his lip, Shaftoe's wholehearted attention.

It felt as though the blood, stopped dead in his veins at the very moment that he'd leapt t'wards the Kraken's maw, was pumping on its way again, quick and crimson. It felt like life.

**XXXVI**

If he'd been alive, Jack Shaftoe would have pulled away, looked around for witnesses, tried to disclaim the Imp-ulse that'd overtaken him. Too late: oh, late! He reminded himself over and over, with that tiny fragment of his mind that wasn't caught up in this infernal unlooked for bliss, that he was indeed Late. Dead and doomed and damned, and free at last to do just as he pleased.

Nothing had felt so good since ... since he couldn't remember when. Long before that cruel sharp piercing death. Long before Mary Dolores.

He drew back momentarily, to savour the sensation more.

**XXXVII**

If this is Hell, thought Jack Sparrow, it's sorely in need of a Temptation or two. And lo, here was Jack Shaftoe right in front of him, all rude animal grace and tempting as anything: and if Jack was going to be damned, he could think of twenty worse reasons in a moment.

(Hell, he probably had worse reasons. But who knew what counted as good or bad, hereabouts? Maybe he should've spent longer reading the Bible: but once you knew how a book ended, it wasn't 'specially entertaining. )

Jack Shaftoe Temptation incarnate, it fell to Jack to play Tempter.

**XXXVIII**

"There bloody well is sin in Hell," said Jack. "You ... you ..." And could not speak for the thought that assailed him: that sin's incarnation swayed there before him, like some especially succulent incubus, some lewd and licentious temptation designed expressly for the purpose of keeping Jack Shaftoe in Hell for evermore.

He thought he might quite like it here.

Sparrow was kissing him again, his warm hands (when'd Jack last felt warmth?) palpable through Jack's damp coat, his mouth hungry, his body strong and hard against Jack's own. And was there any point, any more, in resistance?

Jack gave in.

**XXXIX**

Jack Shaftoe's body was strong and warm and hard against Jack's own. He was leaning back against the parapet, hauling Jack t'wards him: Jack pushed his thigh between Shaftoe's legs, rocking against him, suddenly quite desperate to have all and everything that Shaftoe'd give him. Why, this was Hell, and Shaftoe might be snatched away by some cruel devil at any moment, at the worst (the wondrous) moment. Jack pressed closer, insinuating his free hand beneath Shaftoe's aged coat and then beneath his shirt, and grinned, triumphant, as Shaftoe choked at the feel of Jack's scarred palm against his ribs.

**XL**

Hell had stopped boring Jack Shaftoe some time ago: a fine achievement, for the mortal world had seldom failed to induce a weary resignation in him. But this was fine and hot, new forged and shining, and he wanted more. More of Jack Sparrow's clever hands on him: more of the harsh sough of Sparrow's indrawn breath as Jack (ever a quick study) mimicked that touch on its imparter: more of, oh Christ (though Christ'd had nothing to do with it), that sure hand working into his breeches, freeing him, touching him as sweet as his hand on Jack Sparrow.

**XLI**

Like teetering on a clifftop above an infinite Fall: like the moment, coming about, before the sails bellied with wind: like racing endlessly t'wards gold, sunlight, freedom. Oh, this was bliss all right, here in Hell with Jack Shaftoe's warm hand on him, his hand on Shaftoe: two bodies (minds, hearts, cocks) with a single aim.

And yet this was Hell. Despite the exquisite tremor of Shaftoe's touch, the gust of his breath, the sure strong rise of his living flesh beneath Jack's hand, Jack was sinkingly sure that, even if they did this for all eternity, he'd never spend.

**XLII**

Oh, he knew what he wanted now: and knew, too, that he'd have to quit Hell to have it. (The thought of having Jack Sparrow, of Sparrow having him, made Jack's prick swell impossibly more.) This creature -- nay, this pirate, this man -- in his arms, touching him, welcoming his touch, was showing Jack a glimpse of something as distant from quotidian life as the Heaven they talked about in churches, all angels and harpsong and praise. But oh, infinitely more alive, more various, more --

Sparrow's hand stilled on Jack's eager prick, and he moaned protest against the pirate's avid mouth.

**XLIII**

"Hush," said Jack. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" said Shaftoe, still flushed.

"Someone calling me," said Jack: held his hand up as the faint, faraway cry sounded again. "A woman," he said. (Shaftoe pouted delightfully.) "I know that voice." He frowned, trying to put a face to't. He'd have it in a moment.

"That blonde bitch who Judassed you?"

"Nah," said Jack. "It's ..."

"Jack Sparrow!" Not a voice he'd ever heard, awake. He turned towards the sound. "Jack Sparrow!"

"Jack! What the fuck"

But Shaftoe's voice was fading like a ghost in sunlight, and the Siren's call was irresistible.

**XLIV**

Fuck. FUCK. Where'd Sparrow gone? Who'd taken him? And why'd they left Jack behind? Left him behind with the blood still surging (I'm alive!) from the remembered bliss of Sparrow's touch. Left him with a hard-on and no prospect of softening. An eternity of want: oh, this was Hell. And no Jack Sparrow to ... to entertain him. (Oh, but there'd been more to it than that.) "You bastard!" yelled Jack at the dismal encompassing emptiness. Oh, if Jack Sparrow'd escaped Hell, that was a fine and fortunate event. For him. But Jack did not care to languish here alone.

**XLV**

Jack Sparrow looked around at the familiar, anxious faces of thse who'd called him back. Bootstrap's boy. Tia Dalma, of course. Good old Gibbs. Pintel and his mate with the eye. Jack's old nemesis, Barbossa (Jack narrowed his eyes): his newest nemesis, Elizabeth. She was crying.

"Playing at necromancy, are we?" he said, turning on his heel to bestow his most demonic smile on them all. "Come across any nice ... virgins ... lately?"

Will paled. Elizabeth blushed.

"Better show old Jack the trick of it, eh?" said Jack coldly. "For there's something I left behind me that I'm loath to lose."

**XLVI**

No reason to walk away: Jack Shaftoe stayed where he was, staring out across the grim necropolis, brooding most uncharacteristically on what he'd had, and lost. Oh Christ (no sulphuric blast resulted from that word) Sparrow's hand, his skin, the way he'd looked at Jack, the way they'd wanted the same thing. Though Jack wasn't sure exactly what that thing had been, he wanted it as much now as when Sparrow'd been here in his arms.

There was a salt tang to the air now, as though the breeze was blowing from a distant ocean. But there was no breeze.

**XLVII**

"Blood'll do it," said Jack Sparrow grimly. "Blood brings ghosts: what, Mr Turner, have you not read your Homer?"

He sliced, fast and unflinching, across the palm of his right hand. Bees to honey: salt for meat. If any blood could call Jack Shaftoe back, it'd surely be his own, still stirred by Shaftoe's touch, his kiss, his sheer surrender.

The rest of 'em huddled together by the crumbling archway (there was nothing but gloomy green darkness beyond it), staring and muttering. Jack did not bother to listen, or to stem the trickling blood. He cried Jack Shaftoe's name aloud.

**XLVIII**

Jack's head went up. That sound ...

"Where are you?" he yelled, scrambling to his feet. "Jack? Jack Sparrow?"

Wherever he turned, there was nothing there: yet a glimmer of gold lurked at the extreme edge of his vision, taunting and tempting him. And if he turned that way, away from hell -- north, they'd agreed, every way was north, but this direction was quite other -- then

a hand on his own. A hand slick and warm and live. Jack shut his eyes, because he could not see Sparrow: stumbled forward, like a blind man, until he was caught, and hauled close.

**XLIX**

Captain Jack Sparrow had done it. Good as (wicked as) the best, worst pirates of all time: he'd plundered treasure from Hell itself, and come back to make sure the tale was told right.

He was back, here in the vivid mortal world, with air in his lungs and a beat to his heart: alive, with Jack Shaftoe at his side, eyeing the unsettling artwork that adorned the walls.

"Later, darling," he told Elizabeth when she began to speak. "Aye, Jack, 'tis her: but never mind." And to the rest of 'em, "Mr Shaftoe and I have ... matters to conclude."

**L**

Was it the Day of Judgement that found Jack Shaftoe alive again, resurrected body and soul? He'd heard no ringing Trump, no twittering choir. And his corpus was blessed, still, with a crudely carnal rising, a raging lust for Sparrow, who'd pulled him back -- dragged him forward -- out of Hell.

Like being born again, it was, and Jack sucked in a pungent lungful of moist air, redolent of greenery and rot, life and death, infinitely various. What point in dwelling on the shadows of that old, tattered life? Jack sloughed it like dead skin, and plunged into his second self.

\- end -


End file.
